#over the hills and far away

[thefreakandthehair]

Eddie laughs from his position between Steve’s legs in the large bathtub, holding his glass as he rests his head back against Steve’s shoulder. Hot water soaks his muscles, sore everywhere that’d been so full of the man behind him.

He feels Steve’s arms wrap around his torso to pull him closer at the same time that warm, burgundy-stained lips brush his temple. Eddie’s glass tips just a bit, the unexpected movement sending sips of red wine into the bath water. He thinks for a moment that there’s something poetic about the red wine in the clear water, the way it mirrors the way Steve had helped clean his wounds in the same bathtub just months back.

Unfortunately, poetry only exists in hindsight. The blood wasn’t beautiful until Eddie had Steve to link it to, nor was the wine– it was just red.

happy first birthday to over the hills and far away, written by @thefreakandthehair with art by @artgroves!

wow. I can’t believe over the hill and far away is a year old today. that means it's been a whole 12 months since I tore out a piece of my soul and posted it on the internet just hoping for the best. writing this fanfiction was a journey and viscerally cathartic.

we all have past experiences that we look back on, not with regret but with a healthy dose of “what if?” what if someone picked up a phone? what if the wind blew in another direction and changed the course? what if just one tiny thing had been different? what would life have looked like?

there are big chunks of over the hills and far away that are lifted directly from one of my past experiences, one that I used to wonder about. life is weird and I’m very happy with where I landed, but it was so poignant to slice up that chapter of my life and write a new ending for it.

anyways, happy first birthday to over the hills and far away! you’ll always be my baby. 💕

[starrie-amethyst]

Perfect homework music 😁

[myimaginaryradio]

Over The Hills And Far Away - Led Zepplin - 1973

[lightthewaybackhome]

[consumedshadow-mysticmc]

Feel like rewatching the Circus arc.

[artfulusername]

I think we can all agree that the person responsible for the robbery set-up in the song "Over the Hills and Far Away" by Nightwish is the bestie whose wife the protagonist was banging.

He had means, motive, and opportunity.

Now, sure, maybe he just got lucky and someone else just happened to plant the protagonist's pistol at the scene of the crime. But that seems incredibly unlikely. It makes much more sense for the cuckolded man to set the wheels in motion for this turn of events either by committing the crime himself or by handing the pistol off to the criminal.

Let's face it. If bestie was aware of the affair and cool with it, he'd have offered some kind of alibi to keep his friend from being transported for a crime he didn't commit. I mean. It's what friends do, right?

At the end of the day, the moral of the story is this: Don't bang your best friend's wife unless he's cool with it and all involved parties are consenting. That's just logic.

[rastronomicals]

11:33 AM EDT September 20, 2023:

Led Zeppelin - "Over The Hills And Far Away" From the album Houses of the Holy (March 28, 1973)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under:    Albums named after songs that aren't on them

--

[stingrayextraordinaire]

Aesthetic Moodboards // “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Nightwish

As sure as the rivers reach the seas, back in his arms he swears she'll be.

[black-arcana]

Tarja Turunen ▶ Over the Hills and Far Away Live at Rock Pod Kameňom 2022 [x]

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 25th:  Songwriting | Snuff - Slipknot | Melancholy a/n: established steddie, angst resolved quickly with fluff. excerpt and new outtake from over the hills and far away! I think it makes sense without reading the whole thing, but it is my favorite thing I've ever written so feel free to read the whole thing if you feel so inclined ✨ read on ao3 + masterpost | tumblr masterlist

October 1987

Eddie’s pen runs out of ink and he chucks it across the room, clattering off the walls with a loud clang before falling to the ground. Everything he writes is wrong because everything he writes is Steve, or Hawkins, or Chrissy, or some other version of his past that cuts him too close to the bone. 

Chicago has been good to him over the past year— his apprenticeship turns into a job, his apartment isn’t a total shithole, he’s met decent people, he’s even forced himself on a couple of (albeit dead-end) dates— so there’s no reason that he should be sitting on the floor of his living room with pages and pages torn out of this notebook because they aren't right. But there he is. 

Crumpled up pieces of paper surround his outstretched legs, and his joint is almost kicked, and his beer has been warm for almost an hour. Slayer plays at a low volume in the background and while he knows that’s now how it’s meant to be played, he really doesn’t want to deal with another noise complaint. Eddie lets his head lean backwards over the couch cushions and shifts to sit up straighter, his back now pressed against the front of the thrifted piece. 

Hands in his hair, like always. It’s a tell he’s noticed about himself and he wonders briefly if he’s done this his entire life, if he’s been so obvious with his discomfort in the company of others? 

Maybe that’s why— 

He cuts the thought off at the pass and brings his fists down to the floor before grabbing his shitty warm beer from the coffee table and pressing it to his lips. Warm beer is better than no beer, he thinks, at least when being tormented by my own stupid brain. It hits the back of his throat and he cringes. 

Moments pass and he looks back down at the notebook, a fresh page full of potential, possibility, future. His hands search the drawer of a side table within reach and come up with a new pen. The plastic nearly cuts his lip as he pulls the cap off between his teeth and spits it somewhere to his left, bringing one shaky hand to the page.

The next song will be happy. I promise.

April 1990

Eddie sits alone in his apartment– their apartment, now– with his legs outstretched in front of him and his back against the cushions of the couch. It’s as though he’s gone back in time as he sits in a familiar position, the same notebook gifted to him by Steve all of those years ago open in his lap with the pen sitting in the middle of the pages. The last entry stares up at him, his own handwriting pressed deep into the pages. 

The next song will be happy. I promise. 

He hasn’t put pen to page in this notebook in years but life is strange and time is a flat circle. Somehow, he’s ended up right back in Steve’s arms except that this time, they aren’t broken. This time, they aren’t terrified. This time, it works. 

So for months now, Eddie’s poured over the pages of this notebook and agonized over verses and choruses, bridges and metaphors. All of his thoughts are wrapped in writing this song, the one he’d promised Steve without him even knowing.

A song he hopes can convey what he’s feeling without making a true and complete ass of himself. 

A song he’s probably never going to finish because his brain feels like cotton and his thoughts are too jumbled to become words, a ball of yarn wound too tight. 

A song he wants to finally play for Steve.

It’s hard to fit four years of love, and longing, and brokenness, and rebuilding into just a series of four verses– one for each year– but he’s trying. He’s trying because Steve deserves it, and because Eddie needs it. So much time has already passed, and if he has to go one more day without telling Steve exactly how he feels, how he’s always felt, he’s going to implode in upon himself. 

Three deep breaths, and he picks up his pen. 

September 1990

Eddie plays Steve his song. 

Later that night, cleaned up and comfortable, Eddie whips out his guitar. Steve hadn’t thought to question why he brought it– it just felt like an Eddie thing to do. But then he takes out the little notebook Steve gifted him so long ago, right here in the same living room, and Steve hazily puts two and two together. 

The next song will be happy, I promise. And it is. 

“You wrote me a song?” Steve says, incredulous and warm from the inside out. 

“I did. Tried to, at least. Hold your excitement until it’s done and then we can decide if you want to claim it for yours.” Eddie teases and winks, pulling the guitar up into his lap. 

He strums methodically as Steve watches his ringed fingers glide along the strings. Eddie’s voice sings words from his heart, torn free of their cages after so many years.

War made us corpses,  Let’s rise from the shallow graves, let’s watch the way time warps. Hold these broken bones until they’re healed,  Hold them when they shake.  Sometimes it’s hard  To let you see me cracked and scarred.  Moonlight through the curtains and music on the stereo,  Just tell me all you say is true. Love is a three letter word, sweetheart, and it’s you. 

There are no words Steve can muster to respond, but he cries, and that says more than words ever could anyways.

[read the full fic here on ao3!]

[halukturgutmenguc]

©all rights reserved / htm.studios/2022/283

Over the hills and far away....!

[myimaginaryradio]

Over The Hills And Far Away - Led Zeppelin

[welcomee-homeee]

Hey lady, you got the love I need Maybe more than enough Oh darling, darling, darling Walk a while with me Ohh, you've got so much, so much, so much

Many have I loved, and many times been bitten Many times I've gazed along the open road

Many times I've lied, and many times I've listened Many times I've wondered how much there is to know

Many dreams come true, and some have silver linings I live for my dream, and a pocket full of gold

Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing Many, many men can't see the open road

Many is a word that only leaves you guessing Guessing 'bout a thing you really ought to know, oh, oh, oh, oh Really ought to know I really ought to know Oh You know I should, you know I should, you know I should, you know I should